


From the Past

by hikarichans



Series: Our Time [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 01:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14558367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikarichans/pseuds/hikarichans
Summary: You were an aspiring artist, living in New York, trying to pay for your father's debt. One day, you see someone sitting in front of you, just three meters away in the subway. He became your muse, but maybe your relationship with him was far beyond that.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing so much these days and I'm so excited to write this one because I've thought of the whole plot, so (hopefully) I won't abandon this. This is set during Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Also, this story will be part one of a two series story! Can I just say a quick thanks to Sebastian Stan for being my muse? I would have never loved his character as Bucky Barnes if it wasn't for him. Anyways, enjoy!

_I should have sat inside the cafe_ , you thought to yourself as the rain fell down on you and your sketchbook. Stains of water litter the page you were working on, an outline of the Stark Tower from an ant's eye view or whatever the fuck it's called in the art world. You were so near on finishing it too.  _Fuck, fuck fuck. Just great. All of my goddamn sketches are wet._ Hastily, you chuck in every art supplies that is splattered all over the table in front of you so none of them get wet. Even though it's too late, to be honest. You had brought different types of pencils according to their thickness and darkness and you've also brought coloured markers. But can anyone explain to you why you didn't bring an umbrella with you today? You saw the weather prediction and you totally let it slip through your mind. 

You groaned in utter disbelief as you walked in to the cafe, only to see over ten people lining in front of you to pay for their own cup of coffee. Not only that, only one cash register was working, and there's only two people working behind the line. The rain was getting bigger, and the lightning is scaring the crap out of you. You've always hated them growing up. You shout at the cashier to work faster, but they just turned their eyes and continued on chewing gums which annoyed the fuck out of you. You wanted to slap those faces till their mouths fly away from their faces. You're going to fucking stand for a solid thirty minutes, you thought. 

This was supposed to be a good weekend. You got a job to be a part-timer as an illustrator at the newspaper, mostly to trace the outlines of the strip comics they print at the very bottom of the last page that only kids or old men bother to read.  _At least_ you got a job. You've been unemployed for a few months now, and you were so close to giving up on getting a job and be a stripper instead, but then you saw the opportunity and decided to give it a try. Living in poverty wasn't a part of your bucket list, but here you are trying to pay your dad's debt. He has debt to be paid for seven or more generations, but of course you were going to be the only one that's going to pay for it. You had no siblings, no cousins, no aunts, no uncles, no grandparents, none. It was basically you and your dad alone.

How did you managed to survive all these years? 

What confused you even more, your dad still managed to find a way to provide for the both of you even though he had debt everywhere. The fridge was always full, if you needed something it would be there the next day. It was very freaky. But still he had debt. At least that what he claims. You're doubting it. He may be your dad, but sometimes, he just feels like a distant relative. Or someone not related to you at all. You look nothing like him. He always tells you its because you look like your mother, but you've never seen your mom either. She died when you were a baby, so of course you never knew her. You've never seen a photo of you and your dad together before as a child. You don't remember receiving any presents for your birthday, and he barely took you out during the holidays. All he did was bring you to Rockefeller Center when you were nine so you could skate for ten minutes. You're starting to question why you've never ran away from home before. 

You glance at the clock. It's exactly 8 p.m, which means the next train should arrive in 15 minutes if it's not late. You're walking through a crowd of people so you could purchase a ticket at the subway and go home. Being the forgetful person you are, you forget that New York would be overcrowded when it's the weekend, especially at night. Pushing through the crowd, people started to curse at you for not being careful. _Can't people just shut the fuck up? You're in the middle of a crisis over here._

You're now at the subway, and how lucky you are for missing the 8:15 train! You had to wait even more for another train to arrive. Sitting sideways, you try to see how much of your sketches you could actually save due to the rainfall earlier. The Stark Tower sketch is absolutely ruined because it was the one that the rain hit directly. Funnily enough, your face sketch of Steve Rogers, Captain America, was perfectly fine. It was deep inside your sketchbook, so it had the least chance of getting wet from all the others. You were sad you lost a sketch of The Statue of Liberty though. But it's okay. You could just visit the goddamn place again. It's not like it's going to go anywhere. 

You plugged in your earphones to your phone and played your playlist. You pulled the ruin sketchbook again so you could draw something,  **anything**. Your hand was itching to move. Not finding inspiration, you looked around the place to see if there's anything interesting enough to draw. Well, you can't draw walls. Boring. The trains? They move at a speed faster than your own hand ever could. Maybe you could draw the people. You look at every person thoughtfully and saw a little girl that was crying because apparently, she lost her favourite doll because she dropped it on the street. Not a good subject. Moving on, you saw an old man sleeping not too far away from you. You could see his other old friends were taking pictures of him. You could even hear one of them say, "he's going to yell when he sees this!" You laughed when you heard it. Another person you saw was a teenage girl who had pink hair. She was wearing a gothic dress, which kind of fitted her persona. 

You started to sketch her starting from her face, to the details of her features. You were doing a pretty great job when a shadow walked past the girl to sit just two seats away from her. A man. With long hair that almost touches his shoulders. He's incredibly muscular, you think. Wait, what the fuck? Since when did you have a thing for muscles? But oh my god you were swooning over his face. He had an amazing jawline, one that could cut a bitch is what a millennial would say. His eyes were an icy blue, which kind of threw you off guard because you've never really seen that shade of blue before. This is the guy you wanted to draw. 

He was sitting there, hands crossed in front of his chest. He has a scornful look on his face, but there's something incredibly soft about him that you can't fathom. He has a huge ass luggage beside him. They look like they weigh twenty pounds. But then, he would probably be able to carry it around. Like you said before, he's incredibly muscular. He was wearing a tight black henley shirt that hugged his frame perfectly. You could see where his muscles dipped, or the outline of his abs. You start to sketch him in your book. Surprisingly, your hand is moving pretty fast across the paper, and you've managed to finish a part of his face in just a few minutes. You were slowly making your way to the other half of his face when the train you were waiting for was right in front of you. 

As you made your way in, you kind of wished that the man was going in the same direction as you are. But then you realise he was in the opposite of your train, and your world is shred into pieces. As exaggerated as it sounds, you were disappointed you couldn't finish his sketch. Not only because he was a sight to look at, but because he definitely inspired you in some sort of way. He was rough around the edges, like he went through some sort of intense work out all his life. Even with the henley shirt you saw red marks on the palm of his hands before. Being an illustrator has its own perks. You were faster and more observant than most people. Faster as in faster only when you're using your hands. To sketch. You were also more observant because every detail someone or something has can entirely change the outcome of your illustration. 

But still, you found your hand still moving on the paper, like your brain has engraved the man into your mind somehow. It looks like him in a way, but some parts felt a little bit wrong. A missing puzzle piece. Your drawing did his actual face no justice. He was godlier than the outcome of your sketch.

As the train move its way through New York, you finally finished the drawing as soon as the train stops where you get off. You closed your sketchbook and make your way out of the train to the streets. Now, you seem a little less grumpier than you were before. You scoff because you knew the reason behind it. That man on the train. What kind of magic can he do? Does he normally spell girls with his astonishingly good looks? Charm them with sweet talk?  He looks like he has a way of wooing girls. Knows how to do it expertly. Then a wave of sadness hits you. You have accepted your fate. You will never meet this man again. This is not some kind of generic romance film you've watched all of your life. It doesn't work like that, right?

Taking the steps to enter your apartment, you fish out for your keys and unlock the door to your apartment. Your room was located in the fifth floor, which was the top of the building itself. At least you didn't have to inhale New York pollution as soon as you opened your windows. You noticed that your dad was sitting right in front of the TV, and the news was on the screen. It was the Avengers again. They were a national icon. Everyone knew who the Avengers were. Captain America, (your personal favourite, you love the fact that he came from the 1940's) Bruce Banner or the Hulk. You remember him destroying the other side of New York, at Harlem exactly before he disappeared. Then there was Thor, a god from the Norse mythology, or maybe not really a myth. His adopted brother Loki was the one responsible for the attack on New York two years ago. God knows how much damage he caused. Another member was Black Widow. Former Russian spy. Extremely skilled in combat. Of course the last but not least was Hawkeye who was the master at using a bow and arrow. 

Turning off the TV, you put a blanket over your sleeping father so he wouldn't get a cold the next morning. You absolutely cannot carry him, so moving him to his bed was not an option. You unlocked the door to your own room (yes you lock it so your dad can't enter it) and rip off the page of the sketchbook with the man on the train on it. You stick it on the wall, just beside your mirror so you can look at it and mourn at how devastatingly single you are. And how badly you want to see him again no matter what circumstance.  Maybe you will, who knows? Destiny works in ways you can never predict. 

It was time to sleep. You changed your clothes, not bothering to take a bath. It's Sunday tomorrow, which means you were free for the day to sketch or do whatever the fuck you want. Be a potato couch and binge-watch your favourite shows on Netflix. Your dad however, he liked to go out every Sunday. But he always  comes back at 10 p.m. You tried to sleep, but all night you find yourself thinking about the man on the train. You should name him. Scruffy guy. Yeah, he fit that category. He had a little bit of stubble on him when you met. You're laughing to your own thoughts right now. 'When you met'. Probably the last time you would meet. But a part of you keeps denying that, no matter how unrealistic and how the chances are too little. New York is a very big city and full of people. There are tons of guys who has long hair like he does. Has muscular arms like he does. But not as pretty as he is. Not as mysterious and intriguing as he is. 

_You were fucked._


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be a little boring because it's only about your character and her past. But I think this part is very crucial for the plot, so read away! Comments are always welcomed.

The next morning, you woke up around 11 a.m because you didn't find the need to wake up earlier than that. You went to the kitchen to cook some breakfast of eggs, toast, and bacon, the perfect American meal. Wanting to check if your dad has already left or not, you went ahead and knock on his door three times, a habit you've grown ever since you were a child. Your dad always knew it was you if someone knocked on the door three times. 

Since you heard no reply, you opened the door to see a clean, made bed, no sign of your dad anywhere. Well, it's not like you expected anything else. He always went out every Sunday, doing whatever he had to do. You always had your home for yourself on that particular day of the weekend, and you always spent it lazing out and doing practically nothing. You cooked your breakfast and sat down in front of the TV again, legs sprawled out unceremoniously. There was a rerun of your favourite show, Game of Thrones so you went ahead and watched that. 

After a few hours of being nothing else but a potato couch, you went to your room again to probably do some sketching, like you always do when you're bored. Taking a seat on your table, you saw the sketch of the man you drew yesterday on the subway. Your initial thought of sketching was thrown away from the video after you glanced at it. God, if this man was really in your life, maybe you'd be jobless. You'd just stare at him for the rest of your life and feel like you've been doing everything. It hasn't even been a day but you're still mesmerised by how good looking he was. You found yourself wanting to know him even more. You were curious about his voice as well. He was dead silent when you met him. But he did smile when a kid was playing on his gadget like he was interested in it. Must be a science freak. 

The sun was starting to set a bit more, New York looking like it was bathed in a strawberry and mango smoothie from all the different hues of orange and pink it was. One thing you were glad about living in New York was that you could never get tired of seeing the scenery. The architecture, the history, the people. New York was filled with diversity that will always awe you in a way. But maybe the price of everything can be a little bit more lower, you joked mostly to yourself. 

After a few more hours of wasting your life away by doing nothing (since you totally forgot about sketching), you peeked at your dad's room. 

Then a random thought went in your head. You've never spent more than a minute inside his room, mostly because he does his cleaning all by himself and refuses your help. You have also never felt the need to enter it. But now that you're looking at his room more than usual, curiosity took the best of you, so you decided to explore his room just to satisfy a little bit of your never-ending questions about your dad. 

His bed was white. Standard, for a single person. He never brought a woman home, never shown any interest in dating. How would a man satisfy his cravings? You shiver, not really wanting to imagine your dad masturbating. He had one chair, one work table, a light, and a shit ton of notebooks on his desk. It was incredibly disorganised. That's the only thing about his room that was in a mess. They look like they age more than a hundred years, you noted. You look around in anxiousness, like a part of you was scared your dad was silently watching you from somewhere. But of course it was just all in your brain. 

Taking a few unusual seconds, you finally opened the notebook that was on the top. It contained mostly about his weekly schedule, like buy your groceries, clean his bathroom, buy a few medicines. You never really saw your dad consuming medicines before. He never showed any signs of sickness apart of symptoms of fever, maybe like a cough. Now your head was starting to get a little wild with all the unnecessary thoughts and accusations about your dad. Right now, in this moment, you truly felt like you don't know the man you call as dad. 

Going through the first notebook, you were surprised to see little writings in a language you're not able to speak in. You're not stupid and you knew it was Russian because of its weird alphabet shapes. Then you saw a word that kind of threw you off. 'Hydra'. That was the only word in your dad's notebook that you didn't understand. Besides the sentences in Russian, of course. But what is that word and why is it connected to your dad? Your confusion grew even stronger. You placed the notebook back to its position and opened the next notebook. For some weird reason, it's all written in the same language as it was from the first notebook. Also, the cover was a bit more mouldy than the previous one. Scanning a few more pages, you tried to find a random word so you can google translate it.

зимний солдат. 

You added a Russian keyboard to your phone and wrote what was on the notebook and google translated it.  _Winter Soldier_. What the fuck is a Winter Soldier? Some kind of weird organisation? You were afraid that if you googled it you would be scared of your dad. So you decided to brush it off and continue searching for something that was a little bit more English friendly. Closing the book, you put it alongside the first one and opened another one. It wasn't very different from the other ones, but now it was full of pictures. Like. Almost all of the pages consisted of pasted pictures on it. 

It was mostly of your dad, standing beside a few men that wore the kind of long sleeved, all white, scientist jacket you would always see in movies. Then it was a few pictures of a lab, with really bad dark lighting. You've never really seen your dad in his work attire, so he must be retired. But then you noticed a picture that was standing out like a sore thumb from one of the pages in the back. It was a picture of your dad with a woman. Smiling. With an arm around her shoulders. They looked happy. Was this your mother? You saw the resemblance. 

You had similar eyes, but her's was a bit more mature and.... tired. Her hair was short, like a blunt cut that stopped just above her collarbones. Your mom was beautiful. A sense of nostalgia hit you like a wave, but you don't really know where it is coming from. You never knew your mom, so maybe that's why you're so emotional and reacting this way to a picture of her. You were staring a little bit more when you didn't notice your dad had been standing by his room's door. "(Y/N)? What are you holding?" He's running towards you and you froze in your place because you really don't know what to expect. What his reaction would be, and you're scared. "I told you not to go in my room!" He shouted in your ear. He's beside you, trying to snatch away the notebook from your hand but you're being stubborn and holding on to it for dear life. 

"Why are you keeping secrets away from me, dad?" You screamed back, demanding answers. "All my life I've only wanted to know who my mother is, and you never told me! Why do you keep taking away a part of my life?" Your dad was silent and it frustrated you even more. It's like you didn't deserve any answers from him. You let your anger speak for you. "Are you even my dad?" You threw the notebook across the room and sprinted out of your apartment, not bothering to take your keys with you. You only brought your phone and your wallet with you, because you want to run away, you don't want to go back to place where your identity is kept away from you. That's not home. 

 


End file.
